The exit sign means nothing no more; on days like these, a door is a door is a door. We go through one without cutting corners, slap and shut with hardly any remorse. It comes to a point where we proudly put our wares out for display, forgetting the sightless scars and colourless bruises that were once there – but a touch of a finger, skin upon skin, would let loose all the secrets that we have ever known.
The whispers ride freely with the wind, bending all greens and leaving no stone unturned. It can glide through the forest like a song – a mountain of lyrics that runs into rushing waters ice cold, before flowing into sea to become an ocean of poetry gold. Or it can be a washed up bottle peeping from the sand – turning up at least expected places, and yet gracing a thousand surfaces.
And then it goes around the world until it can go no further.
So there is no need to place all your faith in yourself, though you may well know that you are the only person you can trust in the whole of this unforgiving universe. The weigh can at times be too much to bear, but in time you will find that no one really cares.